Interesting Tastes
by mirrorballsymphony
Summary: Death encounters a woman whose affections are extremely negotiable and the oddly shaped diagrams of the Amorous Adventures of Molly Clapper. What could go wrong? Rated T for mild innuendo.


The man started screaming.

On the bed lay the body of a Seamstress, vacant and as devoid of life as the room she was in; the grey, peeling walls and cheap, musty sheets showed someone who hadn't yet registered for the Seamstresses' Guild, thinking that this wouldn't be a permanent job.

There were women all over the city with the same problem. You arrive in Ankh-Morpork, the streets paved with brown rather than sparkling gold, the houses poky and dingy and owned by some nob in Ankh who had never met you and, if they ever frequented the lowest part of the Shades down past Cockbill Street, wouldn't dare touch your hand for fear of contracting some deadly disease. There wasn't disease in the Shades, it was just a prevalent exhaustion which dulled people's complexion and sank their eyes.

The woman's spirit floated up from her body.

HELLO, Death said politely, sitting on the edge of the bed and reading a book.

'You're not a client, are you? Because I'm all booked up for today.'

Death tried to frown. PARDON.

'A client? You know, you want your trousers repaired or something?'

I DO NOT WEAR TROUSERS.

'Well, it makes it quicker, I suppose.'

Death looked confused, and held the book up. THIS IS VERY INTERESTING, YOU KNOW.

'Yes, a lot of people say that. But it's theory, and you've got to know it. Now what do you want?'

He cleared his throat. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

'I don't ask names.'

I AM DEATH, LUCINDA HARRINGTON.

'Hey, how do you know my name? We're strictly anonymous.'

I AM DEATH.

Finally, the words registered in Lucy's mind, transmitting through it in tones of funeral bells and she looked down at her spirit, which seemed a lot healthier than her body was in real life. For one thing, the clothes adorning her corporeal self looked newer, like those she had worn when she cared about how she looked.

'I'm dead.'

CORRECT. NOW, WHAT DOES THIS DIAGRAM SHOW.

The woman peered at it, and frowned. 'That's a tuppenny upright. Don't you know anything?'

IT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE A JAM DOUGHNUT TO ME.

The woman tried to clear her mind. 'I'm dead, yes? Then shouldn't I be going to some sort of afterlife for seamstresses and the like?'

I'M NOT SURE IF THERE'S A CIRCLE OF HELL RESERVED FOR NEEDLEWOMEN. Death sighed. THOUGH I'D BE HAPPY TO ASK.

'I said _seamstress_. Not needlewoman.'

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

'Oh, there's a big difference. No, don't look on that page.'

Death turned the book upside down. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

Lucy was stuck trying to explain some of her customers' tastes to the anthropomorphic personification of Death, who lacked certain attributes needed for that diagram to be possible.

WHAT IS THIS BOOK CALLED?

'The Amorous Adventures of Molly Clapper.'

AND WHERE CAN I GET A COPY?

Lucy blinked. 'I'm sorry, you want a copy of it? You're _Death_.'

THEY HAVE SAID I SHOULD BE MORE OF A PEOPLE PERSON.

'I'm not sure that's the definition of 'people person', to be honest. Look, don't you know what I am?'

I RARELY TAKE INTO ACCOUNT SUCH TRIVIAL MATTERS.

'I'm a prostitute! Seamstress, based in the Whore Pits, you must know the sort.'

Death blinked a couple of times, then looked at the book with fresh, if burning, eyes. OH.

'You see?'

He considered the page. DOES IT REALLY DO THAT?

'No, it's a complete work of fiction. Trust me, I've tried that.'

AND WHAT WAS THE RESPONSE.

'Ow, for the most part. He didn't pay me.'

OW BECAUSE HE DIDN'T PAY YOU, OR BECAUSE OF THE DIAGRAM?

'A bit of both, I think.'

She was conscious that her spirit was slowly bursting into tiny lights and she was growing fainter; she could nearly see the carpet through her hands. It was an odd feeling, vanishing into the afterlife.

'Well, bye then,' she said awkwardly. Death was still engrossed in the book.

GOODBYE.

Lucy disappeared with a pop. Death didn't look up from the _Amorous Adventures_.

HMM, he said pensively, shutting it. I WONDER IF SUSAN WOULD BE ABLE TO EXPLAIN THIS.

* * *

'I'm sorry, _where_ did you get this from?'

FROM A PROSTITUTE WHO WAS A SEAMSTRESS BUT NOT A NEEDLEWOMAN.

Susan blinked a couple of times. '_What?_'

She would never in a million years ask what her grandfather did in his spare time.


End file.
